The abbess did the honours of the table with a grace which showed that, when in the world, she had been accustomed to the best society in Spain. There was a sweetness in her tones and an elegance in every movement, which could not have failed to charm one less absorbed in other thoughts than Ronald Stuart. However, he could not help remarking the fine form of her hands, the dazzling whiteness of her arm, and the beauty of her dark brown curls, which she wore in unusual abundance, and showed rather more than was quite in character with one of her profession. Stuart was too full of thought to prove an agreeable companion, and behaved, I dare say, so very inattentively, that the gay abbess thought him a very dull fellow, notwithstanding his Highland uniform, and the lively account he gave of his own distant home and what he had seen on service in Spain. After paying a last visit to the tomb of Catalina, he departed from the convent. The abbess made a sign of the cross on his forehead, kissed him on both cheeks, gave him her solemn blessing in Latin, and dismissed him at the back gate of the building, which stood on the Truxillo road. As he rode along, mounted again on Campbell’s horse, many a glance he gave behind him, not at the figure of the abbess, who waved her kerchief from the gate, but at the gothic pinnacles and high stone-roof of the chapel, beneath which lay the mortal remains of the once-generous and ardent Catalina. *CHAPTER XI.* *A SINGLE COMBAT.* "And lang they foucht, and sair they foucht, Wi’ swords of mettyl kene; Till clotted bluid, in mony a spot, Was sprynkelit on the grene." _Gilmanscleugh._ It was a delightful summer morning: there was an exhilarating freshness in the air, which raised the spirits of Stuart, as the distance increased between him and the scene of his sorrows. The merry birds were hopping and chirping about from spray to spray; the wild flowers which blossomed by the way-side were giving forth their richest perfume, and expanding their dewy cups and leaves to the warmth of the rising sun. Behind him lay the dark wood of Jarciejo, and above it arose the curved ridges of the Lina,—their bright tints mellowed by distance as they stretched away towards New Castile. Before him lay a long tract of beautiful country, tufted woods and vineyards, with here and there yellow cornfields, rocks surmounted by old feudal strongholds, most of them ruinous; and in many places by the road-side, the blackened remains of the cottages of the paisanos marked the ruthless devastations made by Massena in his retreat some time before.